You Found Me
by DazzledByNorrington
Summary: Cal Hockley is a succesful businessman. But one day he is visited by an mysterious person from his past and, with that one visit, his life will be changed forever.


"Mr. Hockley!"

I turn at the sound of my assistant managers' voice. "Yes, Mr. Daly?"

"Sir, new shipment orders have arrived and what with Mr. Roebling's order, we don't have enough steel to cover all of them."

My temples ache, something which has happened every time I'm in a stressful situation since the Titanic incident. "How much are the other orders worth to us?"

"Oh, um, just about $10,000,000. I think. You may not want to take my word for it, though, sir."

_My God, is __everyone__ at my firm incompetent?_

"Well, Mr. Daly, Roebling's business is worth about $40,000,000. Which, if I may say so myself, is of much more profit than the rest. Terminate the other orders immediately. If they want our steel that badly, they will simply have to wait."

And thus is a perfect example of why my entire firm is on the verge of mutiny.

I do not see why they would be that way; after all, I'm still paying them full wage. They have roofs over their heads. Then again, there's always the off chance that they are worried for me and my sanity…the increasing price of, well, everything, is resulting in a lot of lost business and a few more gray hairs for myself. Nonetheless, I try to not let it faze me; a businessman must do what a businessman must do.

I sit down at my desk and massage my temples. I reflect on the events of the week. Normally relaxing, this exercise just piles the stress on more. I haven't had a worse week since April 1912.

The day seems to get a bit brighter when a pretty young lady walks into my office. _What the hell?_ She looks to be in her early twenties and of foreign descent. "May I help you?"

Without a word she sits and stares at me. "Miss? How can I be of service? Are you in the right office?"

"Are you Caledon Hockley?"

_What kind of question is that? You're at Hockley Steel and in the office clearly labeled 'Caledon Hockley, owner'!_

"Why, yes I am, ma'am."

She looked down and said barely loud enough for me to hear, "I've found you…"

I start to consider calling security when she looks up and says "You don't remember me, do you?"

Now that took me by surprise. I have always been loyal to my wife, and my respectable status didn't allow me to interact with members of the lower class, as her appearance clearly stated she was. She seemed to notice my confusion. "No, of course you don't. Let me introduce myself. I am Anna Prinsky. You might know me better as the child you found abandoned behind the lifeboat on April 14th."

Of course! The memory hits me like a ton of bricks. My only escape, take the child and pretend like she's mine. It had certainly fooled Lightoller. I hear myself say, "I remember."

She looks me square in the eye and asks, "Why did you leave me on the Carpathia?"

_What am I supposed to say to that? 'Sorry, I only used you to save myself. So why would I have kept you? It's not like I cared or anything.'_

Instead I say, "Why are you here, anyway?"

She seemed to settle back into her—my—chair more. "I have…vague memories of that night. I was four. My parent had abandoned me, or so I think. Their names are neither on the survivors' list or the victims'. But they had been definitely on the ship with me. I remember you—you smelled of cologne, seawater, and what I later learned was gunpowder. I remember you hugging me, comforting me, like your own. I felt safe in your arms. Now, I'm not trying to imply that I expected you to adopt me after the whole thing, because I didn't. But you had left without a single word. I spent my whole life looking for you. I knew your name; the officers who witnessed the wreck knew who you were. But every time I tracked you down, you seemed to move. There were plenty of times I wanted to give up. But I wanted to thank you in person. I needed to see you with my own eyes."

By this time she was crying and I still felt indifferent. Obviously she had some problems she needed to work out and I'm not exactly the perfect person to go to for that kind of stuff.

"Well, um, you found me. You are very welcome. Have a nice day, Miss Prinsky." I couldn't help but notice the sarcastic tone of my voice. She nodded and slowly stood.

"Have a nice life, Mr. Hockley."

It was odd-sounding but I made myself think nothing about it. Later that night, when my family was sleeping, I snuck into my library and pulled out my scrapbook. Pictures, tickets, jewelry, memories of a life I left behind after April 15th, 1912. I still had the suit I wore that night, and I swear to God it was still damp. Lovejoy's pistol is locked up in my desk upstairs. But for now, I torture myself by just looking at the small mementos I kept throughout the years. There was no mention of Anna in the book. No picture, no journal entry saying 'I saved a young girl's life yesterday; I wonder what's going to become of her life?'

I dreamt that night of what would've been had I been a more compassionate person.

10:45 am.

I am late for work.

Mr. Daly feels the need to remind me of that fact from the moment I step through the revolving door and all the way up to my office. Exasperated, I finally tell him, "You know, with it being my company and all, I figure it can handle me being a little late. My employees should be able to do their jobs without me." I slam the door in Mr. Daly's embarrassed face.

I am sure he'll be telling the staff with every chance he gets of our encounter. By lunchtime I'll be sure to have a dozen or so more targets on the back of my head. A few over my heart, too, maybe. Eh, it comes with the job. Fortunately, the rest of my day goes by rather uneventful.

The next day, I wake up three hours before I'm supposed to. A terrible recurring dream I've been having plagued my sleep, preventing me from getting a good amount of it. Having nothing to do after getting dressed, I walk to work.

It is peaceful, no machines whirring, no workers yelling…and no voice inside my head nagging me about my troubles. I walk up and down the aisles, not looking for anything in particular. But somewhere in the back of my mind I expected…something.

How foolish of me; what could be here that isn't to be expected?

And then I rounded the corner.

Anna, with a halo of blood surrounding her and a bullet in her head. A small revolver lay in her lifeless, pale hand.

_Did I do this? Did something I say push her over the edge? _

_Oh, why do I have to be so goddamn insensitive?_

No tears fall from my eyes. I kneel by her, careful not to spoil my suit with her blood. There were two pieces of paper crumpled in her hand. I take them. "Ms. Prinsky…what have you done?"

_Dear Cal,_

_I sincerely hope you do not take offense by my use of your first name. I mean it only in the most respectable way. By the time you find this I shall be in a better place, so what's the worst you could do anyway? I beg of you to not alert the police to my passing. I have no family, no reason to live in this world; no one will notice, or care, that I am gone. Even you need not think of me any more—all I ask of you is to bury my body._

_I did not get to thank you two days ago. At least, not in the way I wanted to. But alas, you seem not to want anything to do with me. I had thought you a kind man, but now I see you for what you truly are: a selfish brute. You used my innocence that day to save your own hide, and nothing else. I never knew a man could sink so low as you did that night._

_But, you've made it this far in life, do I guess that old saying is right, "Money makes the world go 'round." Not kindness, not honesty, but money. Were it not for money you would be at the same place in life as me. I will not say I wish you had died that April night, for I don't; if not for you, I would've probably done the same. No, I do not wish you dead. What I do wish is that you will live the rest of your life with my blood on your hands. That is not a threat, Mr. Hockley, nor a curse. Just the truth._

_-Anna Prinsky_

The truth?

Tears finally start to fall as I'm mopping up what's left of her life. Her body is stashed away, ready for burial after the firm closes.

I pocketed her necklace (a funny-looking cross with a ruby at its center) and the letter. They are soon to be the first of many entries about Anna in my scrapbook.

_Look, I'm sorry, Anna._

_I'm glad you found me, I really am._

_I'm sorry for being such a bastard. You know, at the time, I hadn't thought to use you __just__ as a lifesaver. I think I really did care…a little bit._

_And you are __very__ welcome._


End file.
